A Century Ends
by a tattered rose
Summary: "There, it was done. She could move on only it wasn't over." Set after The Transfer, Ivy has to talk to Derek, Derek has to figure out what to do next, and there, always there, is Karen in the midst.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: Written, and thus set, right after The Transfer. So we are AU, but I am not ready to pack up the season and move forth from the finale. Too much possibility would be lost. This fic incorporates a lovely manip by thelastpinksock (I would link to it if I could, I thought it was real for the longest time), and conceptualized under/title stolen from A Century Ends, by David Gray._

* * *

The thing about Broadway, the thing about theatre, was that it was divided into strata, but every day and every night earthquakes split and shifted rock and they all ground down into the same dirt. And things grew.

The thing was, the industry was full of Ronnies, rocketing to stardom holding on to every outreached hand, and never letting go even when they were on top. The thing was, not everyone was a Ronnie.

She hadn't used the nickname in months, no one had, but there were Iowa's out there, rising through the ranks like quartz, flourishing in a impenetrable protective sphere. Untouched.

The term had begun as a nod of respect, really, for potential. It had turned into a symbol of her rise, the mythic quality that led Derek, not just Derek, to surround her. It had become a blasphemy, the remoteness Karen Cartwright shrouded herself in.

No one is universally beloved. That fact being a universal rule. In this business you grew a thick skin, one way or another. To each their own. But there were limits to even professional courtesy, and Iowa had stepped off the edge. What had once fostered a measure of goodwill now left a brackish taste in her mouth. One she couldn't wash away with- There'd been something wrong, that night, in the bathroom, but Ivy had overlooked it. They'd both made names for themselves, it wasn't one or the other. She'd thought they could set it behind them, dust falling away. She'd always acknowledged how good Karen was.

And there was Iowa, over and over, unwilling, perhaps incapable of even pretending Ivy had ever deserved the role at all- not, at least, as anything but a poor second choice if _she_ were around.

She should let it go, it was out of her hands. She couldn't let it go. Karen's face before her on loop, the swell of satisfaction as she saw right through the two faces with a clarity only reached after she'd forgiven and pledged herself to forget. Not even Karen Cartwright could float on forever. And when she fell and cracked open? Well, she wanted to be there to see it.

And she wanted it to be tonight. Judgment night would be Tony night but she wanted it to be now, track Iowa down and force a battle. In front of everyone who knew them both. See if precious little Karen could glance up from her own navel. This desire began to consume her, dragging her back to the place she'd been, the person she'd been the year before. The tamped it down yet let it grow, because every time the flame started to dip something bigger loomed.

_Congratulations, you're pregnant!_

She could grind Iowa's smug face into the dirt. The story always mattered and Karen had always had the sparkle: the understudy pulling it off despite the last minute call, her new musical practically written around her – everyone knew – and sanctified through tragedy. Rip that away from her, gifts others gave, and everyone would see how little was left.

_You're pregnant!_

It wasn't even that. Her career might be over as soon as it had _finally_ taken form, and honestly that would be a relief, if that was the worst, because the pit of panic and rising nausea was for the drinks she'd been accepting (in moderation), the caffeine she'd been ordering (less moderation), what she'd been taking every single day (the pill), and the exertion she put forth eight shows a week. All the things you weren't supposed to do because you were supposed to _know_...

First thing in the morning she had a doctor's appointment, and then she might be out of time. She wanted to beat Iowa, before she couldn't.

* * *

"Are we sure it's Derek's?"

Good old Sam. He'd taken her to the doctor, concerned but quiet, because she'd asked. She didn't want to tell him, not until she knew- until she knew.

Everything was okay, for now. They'd even said she could keep performing, though she had to tell Eileen and Tom, tell them soon. Some things would need to be modified, soon, or she'd have to leave. It had been 6 weeks. Lucky really. They'd caught it early. Like it was a disease. She had options.

"I haven't slept with anyone else since... previews" her voice caught at the appalling truth. The one possible way this could have been worse: if it had been Dev's.

"When did you two even- I know you were talking, but you said you were done with him. What happened?"

"He came back," with the type of laugh that might be a sob in disguise. "No" had always been so complicated, with him. "I ended it. It was just a couple weeks."

Sam paced past her. "Yeah, well it only takes once." The second the words were out Sam was apologizing, wedging himself onto the couch beside her and wrapping her up, chin over her temple. "Whatever you decide, I'm here for you. You know that."

She closed her eyes and let herself imagine those words could make it alright.

As she almost started to doze, he squeezed her back into the present. "You know you need to tell Eileen, right? You can't risk-" Anything. So much shaky ground, crumbling.

Eileen. She wasn't looking forwards to that conversation. There was a conversation she was looking forwards to less.

"Tomorrow. First I have to tell..."

_Derek_. Neither of them said his name, but Sam stiffened.

"Don't let him pressure you into anything. It's your choice. Not his." Like the prednisone had been her choice, not his. Look how that had turned out.

"Derek's not like that."

And Sam had to believe that.

She wasn't sure she did.

* * *

She couldn't face watching Hit List. Probably could have even if she'd wanted to, between Kyle and their new angle tickets were impossible to find. But she milled in the lobby at intermission, lost without her own stage but she couldn't go on before she'd told Eileen, angling for their stage manager. They knew each other, a little, she'd make sure she could find Derek after the show.

After he'd blown past her the night before- she could have texted, called, but if he didn't respond she-

"Ivy." That particular bland blend of thinly veiled disgust. "What are you doing here?"

She couldn't do this right now.

"This isn't about you."

"Of course not. But here you are."

Always the problem. Everywhere she went, there _had_ to be-

"Ladies." And then Sam was there, arm around her waist, lips pressed to her hairline. "They're calling places."

"I have to go." How could she fool anyone? "Some of us have audiences paying to see us _onstage_."

It was hollow, this proof, as Karen flounced off. Rival actresses at feud.

Sam whistled. "What's her problem?" She could only shake her head. She hadn't told him what had happened at the bar, just fled. "Okay, look, I have to go too, but I'll make sure Derek's around. I'll text you, okay?"

The lobby emptied around her. She stood until the ushers stared, and then wandered the streets, pretending to think as hard truths played over and over in her ear.

* * *

"Hey." The soft greeting made her jump, she had another block, a few more minutes only she didn't. "What's wrong?" He dropped his phone into his pocket and she couldn't hear if the concern was real or if Sam had told him or why he was blurry, one arm halfway to her face when she blinked and a tear tickled down her cheek.

She was supposed to have more time, and she shook her head to settle her thoughts into place. Her chin hit his fingers and he withdrew fast. Anyone else, this would be easier. If it had just been a one night stand. If it had been someone like Sam – not gay, but stable and supportive... Actually a gay guy would work beautifully. It wasn't as if it had never happened before.

Index fingers drawing lines came away gray. The one time she couldn't be in stage makeup. She wasn't waterproof. Hysteria rose. She swiped harder, with her palms. If only her biggest problem was walking around New York with raccoon eyes.

"C'mon," as he ushered her against the building, impersonal pressure through two layers of coat sleeves.

There should be a better opening, she'd composed a few, but they only worked when he wasn't looking at her, living memory of all the times he'd surprised her. She threw her shoulders back, as tall as she could stand, and took a breath:

"I'm pregnant."

There. It was done. She could move on only it wasn't over.

He'd gone blank, blinking at her, and it was understandable but she didn't want to understand because _she_ was the one this affected. Her career at stake, the rest of her life. Her stomach was dropping, in the silence. Of course this would affect him, if anyone found out, another scandal with a year and for a production already-

"Derek! There you are!"

Slamming a hand over her mouth, she bolted. Not far. The nearest garbage can. There wasn't much to bring up, she hadn't had an appetite, (something else you shouldn't do, not eating), and it hurt, body trying to get rid of everything it couldn't. Pricks of sweat broke at her temples, and she couldn't fight hands pulling back her hair, finger stroking the nape of her neck.

Karen. Of course.

"Everyone's looking for you. A bunch of fans want to do something. For Kyle. Everyone's waiting."

"Not now."

Damn straight not- A last hiccup and she thought she'd be okay, pushing herself upright. But then, it could be a saving grace. Rescue them from uncomfortable attempts at a conversation they didn't want to have. "It's okay, Derek. I'm fine."

"See? She can wait. This is about The Show." With such perky finality, entitled ease, maybe she hadn't heard and they could go their separate ways- "Really, Derek? This is more important than another actress stupid enough to get herself knocked up."

Guess she'd heard.

"Not now." Another half-protest but enough low force behind it that she let herself drift closer. It was true, pills and condoms yet she'd gotten herself in trouble and Karen had never allowed Ivy was anything to him but an easy lay when he wasn't good enough for _her_. Nothing.

And then the question, dripping. "Are you sure it's even yours?"


	2. Chapter 2

Trigger warning: mild thoughts about abortion.

* * *

He wasn't sure which way she was running, towards Karen or down the street, and he didn't know what he was supposed to be thinking, or feeling, but of the few things he did know he knew if he let Ivy leave now she wouldn't come back. One step and he yanked her off balance against his shoulder, locking her in place with an arm tight over her back.

Karen was glaring at him with mixture of disgust and irritation so familiar, and that didn't bother him. She wasn't looking at Ivy, and that did.

"It's yours." The whisper came from somewhere near his lapel, barely reaching his ear. It was enough. He let out a breath he hadn't noticed holding. Ivy fell closer.

"Go back to the theatre."

"Are you coming?"

"No."

A roll of her eyes but she stomped off. He'd given her everything she wanted and she always demanded more. Time was, he'd found it charming.

Ivy squirmed and he held her tighter. He'd known enough to keep Karen away, that didn't mean he knew what to do next.

"Derek," she pushed urgently at his chest, "seriously." There was an anxious giggle in her voice that made him want to close his eyes. "I have to throw up again."

That simplified things. He let her go. Not far. Just back to the garbage can.

She'd gathered up her own hair this time but he took it from her, the neater job leaving a hand free to lay over her neck. She hadn't objected before.

When the dry heaves stopped he let his hand slide down her back, suggested food as a middle ground between the over-exposed street and over-privacy of one of their apartments. Her arm, at last, tucked securely in his, they wandered in silence past raucous crowds spilling from bar fronts, candlelit windows of higher-class restaurants, and the dim fronts of shops which sold by day. Truth told, he didn't mind. On the second block she hid against him, rubbing at her face, and he knew what they looked like to passerby and for those minutes he could pretend that's all they were.

A couple. Heading somewhere, no reason to rush. Trouble somewhere, maybe, but not with them.

And so that's what they were, until Ivy darted into a dark doorway, tugging him after her.

Not that he was objecting.

The menu wasn't in English. He studied it without interest, acutely conscious of the tension in his shoulders, all but turning around to make sure her detour into the restroom wasn't an excuse to ditch him.

The menu really didn't make sense, and the motley crew of ethnic waiters wasn't providing a hint.

A hand brushed the back of his head and she was sliding into the chair opposite, looking much more like Ivy.

"Sorry, I haven't been- I think it was just stress." She'd twisted her hair up, a thin layer of makeup sparingly reapplied over pale cheeks.

"Look, about what you said-" he began tentatively, before a waiter interrupted. "Should I just point at random?" hearing his own sarcasm but there were a few things unadressed and preying on his mind and anyway, it made Ivy giggle.

"The burgers are good here," she noted, and he let her order, relinquishing her own untouched menu. "They like word of mouth, sorry. I figured it'd be quiet," she shrugged at him.

"Ivy," he sighed.

Suddenly it was all business, like they were in a production meeting, early in the process with unfamiliar crew. "I don't expect anything from you. Don't worry. I just thought you should know before I told," she vaguely at the door, "other people."

* * *

She'd been avoiding thinking about it, all night, even when she was wiping her face clean with a cheap paper towel. Then she'd sat down, and she knew.

It wasn't like she didn't have friends who'd done it, who'd had abortions. A couple more than once. She didn't object to the concept, in the back of her mind it had always been her own failsafe. But now it was an option she couldn't do it. Whatever it cost her, she couldn't look back and imagine what if. It would feel too much like hypocrisy. After all, her own birth hadn't been exactly convenient, as her mother never failed to remind her.

Derek stared at her for the longest time before he spoke. "We can tweak the choreography."

"What?"

"You're hardly the first actress to get pregnant in the middle of a run." He was so dry, she started to worry he'd missed the more crucial aspect of the situation.

"The doctor said I'm okay for a bit. I don't want to ruin the show."

"You couldn't if you tried," he said so simply she almost believed him.

"Derek."

He was regarding her again, almost but not quite unreadable for so long, so long she almost had to look away. "What do you need?"

Whereupon the careless wrap of napkin around utensils took on undo interest. There were certainly things she wanted, things she'd always expected to have. But those were dreams and this was real life and she had to admit "I don't need anything from you." And it was true. The last year had already been a series of nightmares, things she never thought she could get through. She'd gotten through. If the past year had taught her anything, it was that she would be okay through this too.

"You can't just shut me out."

"I know." She couldn't. It was his child, and she knew better than anyone he wasn't a bad guy. If he wanted to set up a college fund, if he wanted visitation, if he wanted anything, he had the right. She wasn't afraid of that. She'd always wanted them to stay friends. It was the boundary which scared her. The place where there'd always be _this_ between them, she'd have no control, especially when the memory of _them_ was still locked up inside her. When the baby would start kicking and she'd want to share and if he wanted his hand would be pressed against her stomach, his face close and the memory of his hand sliding lower-

"Can't we start over?"

"No." The one thing they couldn't do. They could try, perhaps, but it wouldn't end up any differently.

"Ivy."

"Derek."

He sighed. "What are we?"

* * *

That was a question which plagued. They'd never been quite definable, never quite undefinable in a way that felt familiar. She'd never quite replaced anyone in his recollection and no one could quite come close to starting to replace her.

More diners had come in the door, it was still fairly quiet but he had to lean forwards to catch her response; "Verdon never divorced Fosse. But she knew they'd never work."

"I'm not Fosse."

"Derek."

And his name was starting to feel removed, scraped off like peeling paint leaving something, someone else, the ghost of Fosse maybe, like a curse dogging his steps. He deserved it from everyone, but Ivy would... He stole her silverware, all-consuming as it appeared to be, in a bid to make her look up. "Look at me."

She did, and looked so miserable he wished he hadn't.

"Don't give up on us because of a story." And that was when he knew, or rather realized he knew. He'd been avoiding thinking of it, in the end it was her decision, after all. But he wanted her to keep the kid, and he didn't care. In his mind it was a jumble, the crash of a minor mishap in another room and it was, God help him, exciting and not terrifying when Ivy turned away towards the- the child in the other room and he swung her back for a secret smile, secret kiss, everything alright because she was concerned, he wasn't, but he'd join her anyway to check on the noise in the other room just in case...

"It's not just a story, Derek." The concern not immediate, not specific, not enough, and he couldn't distract her with a kiss, not even for a moment. "I know you want to, I do. And I'll never keep you from seeing her – or him – as much as you want. But we both know who you are."

"I won't sleep with anyone else." He could do that. He hadn't slept with Karen, He could have. She wasn't stopping him. He couldn't stop the satisfaction from knowing he could have. He couldn't forget the feeling of waking up knowing that he _hadn't_.

"It's not even that."

Knowing he hadn't because in the moment... It had felt important, the next morning, but Ivy hadn't let him try to explain.

In the baffled silence their food arrived. Ivy tentatively explored her plate, with a calm that left him restless. He could make decisions, he was good with decisions, but Ivy ruled this theatre and he didn't have anything of relevance. Just-

"I can't quit."

The way she looked at him, he wished he could. "I'd never want you to." Because she'd talk him out of it.

They ate in silence, not entirely uncomfortable, Ivy picking at her plate with something resembling enthusiasm. A few remarks, light, skirting the edges.

He threw down money before the check came, too many twenties and she took his hand and he didn't let go. Not even when they were outside and she was trying to tug herself free.

"Come home with me. Tonight. No sex," before she could raise indignation. "Please."

He thought she would. She did. One night, pretending. They could have gotten this far. If. He thought she was pretending too, tucked into a ridiculously over-sized set of his rehearsal clothes when he tucked her further into the curve of his body and she leaned back into his chest and let her arm fall over his.

The next night he sat on her stoop for an hour before she got home, let him follow her up without a word. The night after that he lurked the shadows of the stage door until she offered to sign his hand.

The fifth night she disappeared and he woke at the loss, had toast and tea ready when she finally came out of the bathroom, looking sheepish.

It could get a little awkward, some of the little routines; sometimes he'd have to shift away slightly in the night, slip out of bed first and detour to the shower.

The twelfth night she was cooking in his kitchen when he got back from a meeting. Later he thought she was asleep when she turned, failing to get out of bed but succeeding in finding his mouth and the waist of his pants and her pleased laughter almost made up for the embarrassment at how quickly he was trying to not rock against her.

The seventeenth night she was starting to show. Not enough to matter to costuming, not yet, but there was a fullness under his hand he couldn't stop exploring. It was the night before the Tony's and they were at his place, she hadn't wanted to but he'd taken her to dinner and gotten to the cab driver first.

The seventeenth morning he left it on the pillow by her head.

He'd never been a morning person but he'd gotten into the habit of waking first, or at least alongside, brewing her tea and fixing something she'd eat by the time she was ready to face the day. Things she wouldn't turn down, things he could do and would make her smile and put an arm around his waist as she sipped at her mug.

The seventeenth morning he was staring at the kettle, listening for the flush of the toilet, the creak of the stairs. The sound of the box dropping on to the island.

He'd thought about selling his apartment, getting another. A brownstone, maybe. Too many woman had been in these rooms, they didn't speak to him and Ivy didn't complain but sometimes, in the set of her shoulders as they curled on the couch or the way she hugged the walls, he wondered if she saw them. The ones who had gone, or the ones who hadn't come.

"I can't marry you."

He nodded at the tea bags. It didn't matter. He'd still buy a new place. For her. She could keep her apartment, turn it into a studio, perhaps, a place to work in quiet while they quietly pretended it wasn't a place she could run away to. It was her home, she'd built it for herself, snug and warm but too small for two, even if one were very very small. A house, perhaps, away from the bustle but she wouldn't want to be too far from the theatres. A condo, even, but nothing too knew, it would have to be a place with some history, character and life.

He was watching her against his eyelids, singing silent lullaby to a bundle of blankets, next to a crib framed in a bay window when the click of the door told him she'd gone.


	3. Chapter 3

He didn't think she'd win.

It wasn't a fair assessment but that's what it had felt like, a sparkling booby prize instead of first place, a diamond for a Tony, motherhood for her career.

He didn't think she'd win. Hell, _she_ didn't think she'd win. Not up against- well, there was no shame in losing to a Broadway legend, none at all. The mortification would be in losing to- And that was it. That was why she'd stared at the ring as it perched in its little box perched on her hand as she perched on the edge of the tub for as long as she'd dared.

There were so many, so very many things wrong with the picture.

She was good enough for the private touches and secret whispers, but she wasn't his Marilyn- no, she had to admit, that wasn't the problem and that lack of problem was why she had forgiven him. For that. She wasn't his Marilyn but Derek didn't think she'd win the Tony because he didn't think she deserved it. Not up against- Karen would always be first, in his eyes, her or the next _her_, and she hadn't needed Karen's little confession to know what that meant. After all, he'd slept with Rebecca Duvall, and she hadn't even been _his_ Marilyn, just the one he'd got.

Her child would have two parents, or one, if it came to that. Her child would not grow up with a mother always second in their father's eyes. The old Ivy might have settled for what she could get, but a mother- the title was starting to settle into the pathways of her brain and no mother should burden her child with that example, that shame.

That was why she hadn't picked up the ring, tried it on for size. Hadn't let herself imagine "what if?" or felt the weight, the security of a girl's best friend. She did allow herself a moment, before snapping the lid closed, to imagine the apartment she could afford. Her bank account was much happier with a leading-lady's pay but she couldn't bring herself to count on it, not with the prospect of unemployment on the horizon. And the thing with Derek was that the promises he could offer were always so _grand_... If only the ones he could keep were the ones which mattered to her.

She cried on the subway ride home. Not hard, but persistent, and she let the tears fall, relatively secure in anonymity, one story amongst thousands. Brittle smile to a couple kind, concerned souls, as she reveled in her own weakness. She'd been lying, these past few weeks. She'd hidden away in a little bubble, with Derek, the same old bubble blown anew, full of shine yet mere atoms thick, tantalizing possibility until... it broke. Again. Much less than a diamond could have killed it, though a diamond could break it for good.

The world was coloured drab, this side of happiness. The world was sharp and full of empty bottles and chewed gum. Ivy was just another girl in a city of hard truths, and it was time to disappoint her mother. Again.

* * *

The too-tight dress held itself up, binding across her stomach with bracing stiffness. She wasn't taking it quite like Ivy had feared. Oh, the struggle was there, in her eyes, admonishment on the tip of a tongue, but that tongue danced behind closed lips.

"A grandchild?"

She had one already, but this, at least, was a boon. A title and position outside- perhaps glossier for being untethered to her- or his- mother's faults.

Ivy found herself, suddenly, wrapped in the kind of embrace she'd always craved, and found herself resenting how little she resented receiving it only as a proxy.

"But-"

"It's Derek's," Ivy preempted flatly, pushing away in words as she couldn't in body. If only the magic of a grandchild could save her from the rest of this conversation-

"Oh my dear- Of course you have to tell him-"

"-He knows."

The transition was the tiniest of glitches. "-If he thinks he can get away with-"

"He _knows_, mom."

The close air grew closer. "If he thinks he can get away-"

"He didn't. Doesn't. But I don't- I can't-" Sharpness tore at her throat.

Of all the times her mother had surprised her with casual cruelty or painful disinterest, this was the first time she'd been frozen by kindness.

"Well never mind, it's not like an actress has never gotten pregnant before. Look at me!" Leigh's sharp laughter bounced off the squash of fabric in Ivy's closet, and failed to wound. "They won't need you for dancing, not in development, and you'll be fit again for next season. We must find you another dress, though, you can't be on camera in _that_..."

And like a mute little doll, a favoured plaything, Ivy let her mother hold up dresses and pull down her hair.

"Not that I haven't received my share of offers, of course," another burst of laughter failed to shard, "but you should _hear_ what everyone's saying to me about _you_. And once you have your Tony, well-"

"You think I could win?" Her voice cracked into a whisper, nothing against Leigh's brazen cheer, but shattered something, a wall between them, when her mother became nothing but a woman, holding a dress as she looked helplessly at her daughter.

"No one who's seen you onstage," Ivy wanted to crumble, and she found herself crumbling now, "could vote any other way."

She changed in the bathroom, hiding what had already been revealed. But she had, she found, neglected to lock the door, as cool fingers swept the hair off her neck – when her gown hadn't fit she'd resolved to accept her plainness, her damaged inconsequence, but she wasn't about to spoil this moment by complaint at a change- when something cold slithered past her collarbone to tickle between her breasts.

"Mom?"

"It's always brought me luck."

Leigh's necklace. The one she'd never been allowed to touch, no matter how much her tiny fingers itched to run along the delicate chain, no matter how much she wished to cradle the tiny winking diamond set in the heart of the perfect filigree rose.

"You know," Leigh's voice had regained the familiar edge of narcissism, a comfort in itself. "I wore that every single show, when I was pregnant with you."

She longed to pick it up now, stopped by an unaccountable fear. Instead she inched to the mirror, eyes hooked on the gossamer lines framing her face. Caught against the shine they gave her eyes. She felt like Alice, Alice in her looking glass, trapped in the ordinary world but so close, so very very closer to discovering all the mysteries that lay out of sight on the other side.

* * *

She'd been to the Tonys before, as a treat for her and (she suspected) gambit for the spotlight on her mother's part. When she was 13 she'd been bought a new dress and taken along. Their seats were better now, on the aisle so she could run back and forth for Bombshell's performance. Easy access for the camera, and closer to the front in case she was invited onstage for another reason- but that, of course, was more a matter of formality than probability, and Leigh didn't squabble when Ivy maneuvered them to give her mother the aisle seat.

Her first Tonys had been magical, pure excitement, memories forever floating on the heady spice of the afterparty, where an allowed glass of champagne hardly compared to the endless line of legends greeting her mother and curious about the girl by her side. That excitement was still there – if it wasn't she'd never have been able to stay in the business – though skewed by her age, experience, and situation. She had friends, now, familiar faces approached _her_, and sought introductions the other way around.

And then there was the anticipation, the knot like fear clutching at her insides drawing her mind from the present. She shoved it down, again and again, determined to enjoy the night and focus on the stage, not the audience, not stray to musing – where was Derek? Somewhere over – Karen, broad cheerful face large on the screen, the turn of her head as soon as the camera left her behind shouldn't matter, wouldn't matter, not a memory she wanted staining this night.

It was a relief when it was time to head backstage. She knew this. Surrounded by her friends and castmates, changing into her favourite costume, she'd been here before, more than once, part of the show and paying her dues, just another performance albeit with the best audience in the world.

It was a relief that the award for best choreography would take place just before their entrance. The camera wouldn't be able to avoid finding Derek, hint at all that had happened, his must, his little show that could. If he didn't win, she dreaded her own disappointment, dreaded more her glee that Karen wouldn't be able to lay claim to _something_... And if we won, well...

When he won she wished she was back in the audience, anonymous, because while she couldn't see his approach from her position in the wings, next he was onstage, close enough to see the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, if he'd look over, even once.

She shrank back, retreat blocked by Bobby's chest.

Bombshell. At least it was Bombshell. Karen still his Marilyn but when they took the stage there wouldn't be that shadow-

She missed his opening words, jarred back into attention by Jessica's elbow and an appreciative sigh from the invisible crowd and-

"-someone I love very much-"

_Eileen, Eileen, Eileen, let it be Eileen_ because if it wasn't-

And then, like a deer faced by headlights, she realized Derek was looking right at her and it was _her_ name, plowing into her all the harder for the way he said it, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. To admit their world to a secret he'd never shared with her, to settle her place amongst- to lay her on a pedestal, even cracked, among the rubble that was rumour and truth in his relationships.

More elbows jostled her now but she barely felt them, consumed by the urge to run, one way or the other, saved from the resultant mortification only by his gaze, locking her in place with all the soft, dangerous reassurance of a semi on the freeway.

"I owe her everything."

And then the danger was over. Derek ushered off one side of the stage as her ensemble ushered her on from the other, and in the bustle she would always recall, with awe, that she'd never even thought to look out into the audience, forgot to be curious of the reaction from _anyone_ but herself.


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: Hi ya'll. So, writing rather ahead of what I'm typing (I longhand Smash stuff, most stuff actually, it's just my thing) I have realized that this story has no ending. Which is problematic because it's a story and a story, by nature, must end somewhere. So I really have no idea where we're going, despite being behind the wheel, and I apologize for that, but thank you for reading along with me on this journey._

_I belatedly dedicate this story to locusnola, because it started that way but then I realized I wasn't writing the story I meant to write, but then again she shared with me an "aha" moment which is, at heart, why I write and why I now search on for "the end" rather than just stopping and calling it a day. Wuvs you._

* * *

She was still Looking-Glass-Ivy, up until the moment she reentered the back of the auditorium to nearly run into the familiar line of Derek's back not ten feet away, where he leaned against a column. Then she was back, or thought she was, reeling from the immediacy even as she wondered still if he would turn, his face revealed to not be his own but some- some other _thing_, from a world not her own.

He didn't turn, as she crept to his side, even though he must have heard the door.

"Hey."

"Hey." It was just Derek. Not _guarded_, precisely, but still so far away she wanted to touch him, to make sure he was real.

"Look," she began, "about what you said-" And she wasn't precisely sure what she had to say, _thank you_, probably, for all its insufficiency, but he never gave her the chance.

"For luck. You don't have to say it, it's fine." His hands were warm around hers, eyes slipping off her face again, and again. His voice fell to a murmur; "I owe you more than this," as he turned away, all but fleeing, leaving her in shock, fingers uncurling against the ghost of his press to reveal the ring she couldn't bring herself to pick up.

* * *

He hid on the far side of a column on the other side of the theatre, forcing his heart to slow. He wasn't even sure what he'd said, something stupid, probably, but he'd carved a little haven of happiness, a place where his life made sense, of a sort, and when Ivy had opened her mouth he found he needed that happiness to last just a little longer. However stolen, she'd let him make her part of his night, and he needed to be a part of hers, especially if it was the last claim he'd have on her.

He'd been loitering on purpose, hand in his pocket scratching himself with the best he could offer, what she'd already rejected. The better prize, the statue she deserved – well, he'd be there when she won it, done his best to ensure it would and apologize if she didn't. He would give her the world, but it was out of his hands.

Unless she followed him.

He knew she wouldn't.

He didn't see her again until she was larger than life, a glimpse of her apprehensive face, hand clutched in her mother's, as the nominees were ticked off.

"And the winner for Best Actress in a Musical is..."

The base of his own award dug into his thigh.

The buzzing in his ears drowned out her name in the wave of applause, only it didn't matter because it was her face onscreen, her rising, now her back, a blue beacon heading for the podium.

Even he hadn't managed to ruin everything, for her.

She took her award with grace, off-balance at the weight only for a second before recovering, composed. Not hamming it up, that wasn't Ivy, flustered but overcoming.

"Thank you- I, thank you." The crowd silenced, her time in the spotlight was only one of a series of novelties, for them. "I didn't expect to win, I guess no one ever does, not with all the talent around us tonight." Her eyes were searching, far from his place at the back, far from his empty seat. "I want to thank Eileen Rand, for giving me this chance. And for always showing me, showing everyone, what a woman, what anyone can accomplish. And Tom and Julia, for their brilliance and support along this journey.

"And there's someone I'd like to thank especially-" her hand crept to her neck, "My mother. She let me wear her necklace tonight, the one she's worn every year since before I can remember. Every year, I'd watch her take it out of her jewelry box and it came to symbolize, for me, everything that I love, everything that is so magical, and special, about live theatre." The camera zoomed, and two stars gleamed for an instant before disappearing under her fingers. "Marilyn is famous for the line 'diamonds are a girl's best friend,' and like a diamond there is real value, truth and beauty in what happens on stages like this one. But it's more than that: it's a promise, that moment before the curtain rises when the audience is sitting in the dark and anything is possible. I used to think this necklace was magical, and now that I'm older," the crowd tittered, "I _know_ what we do is as close to magic as anything in the world."

She half-turned away, the audience already starting to clap her off when she took a breath, turned back, and Derek could swear she was staring right at him.

There's one more person I need to thank. Not because he thanked me earlier, but because-"

The room was silent, frozen on an indrawn breath, a theatrical response to what had become a performance of _something_ – or maybe it was just him, waiting...

"-Because for better or worse, I wouldn't be who I am, onstage before you tonight, or on Bombshell's stage every other night, without him." She mouthed her final words as she stepped back from the mic, the announcers' arms at her back, yet they echoed as if she were whispering in his ear: _I love you too._

* * *

While a play might end on that perfect note, the difference between the stage and real life is that life continues on, that moment will never be repeated, but that singularity brings with with it possibilities far beyond a mere two hours, and so much richer than even the largest cast, the most intricate staging, more nuanced than the most epic script.

These were the thoughts swarming Ivy's mind as she passed through the wings for the second time that night – the first as an actress playing Marilyn Monroe, the last as herself, head, heart, and hands full.

She couldn't say yes.

She couldn't say no.

It was a "for now" over and over and there was a baby to think of, a ticking time bomb because the next few months it was still just her but then it would be a _them_, and Derek was... Derek. She couldn't change him, she didn't want to change him, she just wanted to be the one he saw, the only one he wanted to go home to, not at the end, but in the middle, the long middle, that was what she - and the baby – needed, and what _she_ needed was to be The One. For once. For ever.

Fairy Tales.

Happily Ever After.

There were no happily ever afters, not in real life. It shouldn't be this hard. Maybe it should. But where most harboured perfect fantasies unattainable, set alongside mere illusions and "differents," they lived half in their heads and perfection would always be before him, attainable, reachable, and oh, how much lay in that space between mere longing and action, dreams and consummation.

He would have slept with her, Karen. Word spread, it always did, and Karen only kept her mouth closed when she could gain by it. She could picture it, it marred her night with brittle shards, here in the after, in the wings, the two of them almost, but not quite, Karen pulling back and Derek, a night on the couch, telling himself it was for her. Until.

And she wished that was why she'd said it, almost said it to everyone, to make him believe he did mean it, until she could prove he didn't. But it wasn't. It was Derek, too far away to be in focus, too far to be quite real, in that moment when all eyes were on her and she'd let herself live in the moment and in the moment the voter's had chosen _her_ and in that moment she'd let herself believe that he was her Always. Forever. Out there. If she admitted what was deeper than words, could offer the other end of a-

Of an Ever After, sacrificing the Happily to reality.

She loved him. So much it hurt. So much it hurt and she still loved, loved the hurt because it was him.

She fled the holding area, into the halls. She loved him so much there wasn't a "so much," it was simply a fact, as deep as any truth. She was blond. She was 5'3". She loved Derek Wills.

There was nothing magical about it.

The tip of her ring finger slipped into the circle, tugged the chain into her nape as her thumb pressed into her mother's rose.

* * *

He was almost on the street before he remembered.

And Karen met his eyes with gratification and approval and laid her hand on his arm up the aisle, her translucent cupcake of a dress brushing other arms and drawing other eyes.

And Daisy's eyes had been hard and challenging, but this night was to celebrate the cast, the show, and the show- it was Kyle's. Not hers.

Task complete, he didn't stay to watch, wandered the streets instead, final boon repaid. Hit List had been his salvation, his rejuvenation, in more ways than one. His catharsis. He felt reborn, but in a life which had felt rebirth with every new show he struggled to piece together what was real, what was phantom.

Like the heartbeat under his cheek, the one he remembered but couldn't possibly have felt. The warmth and security of Ivy's hand on his arm, coaxing through his hair, a tacit promise that if he reached out, she would be there, always be there for _him_, and not simply whatever she thought he should be.

That she loved him for keeps, for always, not merely for the length of her-

Daisy couldn't wipe her from his mind. Nor Karen, her hands pushing him away even as they drew him closer, clumsy seduction lacking all charm with her lazy, pathetically entitled ambition breathing down his throat.

They tasted so wrong, the both of them.

Perhaps Ana would have tasted alright. Her loathing so open, so refreshingly transparent. Calling him what he was – a whore – not insensible of talent yet eternally prostrate at the alter of... potential.

Ivy might not always have drawn him curious for what might be, but she'd always, since that conversation in the hallway, shimmered with what was. He wished he could tell her. He wished he could explain. To her and to himself. That what Karen had held wasn't something she lacked. It _was_ something she'd lacked, and that was why he couldn't explain, not without making it worse even before he could admit it was his fault, not hers. Something Tom had seen and he had not. Something- Even know he knew he'd been _right_, only it wasn't the _only_ right and that made all the difference in the world.

He'd tried. But he was too wrong, too broken. Too late and too wrong and it was Tom, not Ivy, who led his steps in spiral back to the theatre. Tom who had, he'd always known, written his show for Ivy, Tom whose loyalty had gotten it right every step of the way.

"How does it feel?"

"It spins!" with awe, with childish enjoyment he'd long since outgrown, as a twitch of a finger sent the Tony into orbit.

_His_ star had risen faster, but not higher, not brighter, and so very much more alone.

"Hey."

And he whipped round, as he knew he always would, let her beckon and he would go.

"Hey."

The thing he thought he'd seen was hidden, out of sight down near her heart.

"Do you want to go somewhere? To talk?"

"Yeah." Though he didn't. He did. A minute with her, any minute, pulling harder than one without her.

He rested his hand at her back, letting her lead, thin tether announcement that whatever came next, they had (had) a _they_.

Ivy drew them into a window, sheer curtains gathering the neon glow of the city to add delicate glow on her face refracting off lonely strands of hair.

"Derek, I-"

"Derek!" The curtains billowed, became nothing more than dull cobweb. "Eileen's looking for you- oh, hi, Ivy." Her voice lowered as her shoulders parceled off a new, even smaller space. "Patrick Dillon is talking about a new project, he wants us!"

* * *

_Suzie - Aw, thanks! But at risk of contradicting myself, because in the end what I think matters less than what you read, is that really and truly what Derek is doing, right now? Though I completely agree that, poor guy, he means it as much as he can :)_

_Meg and Anon - I'm glad you're enjoyed it, (and hope you still do!)_


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